


Heart of the Matter

by jadey36



Category: Robin Hood (BBC 2006)
Genre: Drama & Romance, F/M, mischievous Cupid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-10
Updated: 2015-01-27
Packaged: 2018-02-28 22:25:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 20,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2749382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jadey36/pseuds/jadey36
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Robin has returned from the Crusades, hoping to take up where he left off with Marian, his childhood sweetheart. However, with Guy of Gisborne determined to woo her, and a mischief-maker on the loose, intent on causing trouble for the young couple, it seems the path to true love is about to come to an abrupt end.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Introduction

“He will come back, Father,” I say. 

“You’ve been saying that for the past five years, Marian,” my father replies with a sad little shake of his head. “I wouldn’t count on it.”

My father was wrong. Robin did come back.

With his bumbling, faithful manservant Much by his side, he stood on my doorstep with that smug smile I remembered so well. His hair was shorter, and his body, arms and legs even thinner than before he left England, if that is possible, but his boyish good looks remained unimpaired, no scars or blemishes marring his face, neck or hands, as far as I could see. I hoped none under his battle-worn clothing either.

“Leave,” I had said, my bow raised, arrow pointed at his chest.

Unperturbed, he left.

He soon lost that smug smile, however, when he realised that things had changed in Nottingham during his long absence. When he found himself pitted against the villainous sheriff and his equally detestable master-at-arms, Guy of Gisborne. When the sheriff branded him a common criminal and forced him to live in the forest with other outlaws. Robin Hood they called him.

To be honest I felt a little smug myself; serve you right, arrogant, cocksure Robin of Locksley. However, I should have known better. This outlaw life – stealing coin from unwary nobles travelling through the forest and giving it to the appreciative, hero-worshipping poor – suited him far better than living as lord of the manor. After all, in his words: ‘where would be the fun in that?’

Now he is standing at my door again, smiling that same self-satisfied smile, doubtless believing that I have had sufficient time to recover from the shock of his return from the Holy Land after five long years and that this time I will welcome him into my father’s house with open arms rather than point an arrow at his chest and tell him to get lost.

He is wrong. I am not going to make it that easy for him, not after the way he left me, breaking off our betrothal as if it meant nothing, as if I meant nothing. We are not children any more. I have left my plaits and my dirty knees behind me and have blossomed into a striking young woman, according to my father. So, why does Robin not see that? Then again, maybe he does. Perhaps he is simply too busy playing the hero right now to spare any time for me. 

Then, as he takes another brazen step towards me, it dawns on me. He thinks I still belong to him and only him, that he has the luxury of calling me his any time he chooses. Well, he has another think coming. He is going to have to earn the right to step through my doorway, to sweet-talk his way back into my life and possibly my heart.

Starting now.

 


	2. Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Uh oh! Here comes trouble!

_Her..._

 

“I said I’d come back,” Robin says, taking another step towards me. “From the Holy Land, I mean,” he clarifies.

I have no arrow to ward him off this time. Instead, I plant my hands on the doorframe either side of me, making it clear I am not going to let him in. My father is out on a rare visit to neighbouring friends, so the choice whether or not to let Robin into the house is mine alone.

“I thought you meant after a few months, not nearly six years later. Two letters,” I say, my voice rising in both pitch and volume. “That’s all I had. And both of them during your first year away.”

He shrugs. “It was difficult. We were constantly on the move and with the Saracens always on our heels and...” He lets the unfinished sentence hang in the air, unwilling to go into details.

“Anyway,” he continues, after clearing his throat. “Why would you think I would be back so soon? This was not some dispute with a neighbouring estate over water rights or a plot of unclaimed land. It was war, armies in their thousands, marches that lasted for weeks, months.”

He clamps his mouth and I notice a flicker of pain in his eyes, which he quickly masks with a strained smile.

“I know,” I say. “It’s just...” I let go of the doorframe and flutter my hands in front of me, grasping for the right words. Failing to find them, I drop my arms to my sides and say, “It doesn’t matter.”

It does matter, of course, but I’m not sure that I can explain it to him, or that I even want to try, and I feel guilty, too, because there’s a part of me that knows he must have suffered these past years, that he must have witnessed and carried out atrocities he’d sooner forget.

Even so, it still stings, his easy dismissal of me all those years ago.

I recall our parting words as if it were only yesterday – he going on about the honour and glory of fighting for King Richard and Christendom and me calling him a fool. I had hoped he would see sense, that he would return the next day, with a ring and a marriage proposal. Sadly, it didn’t happen. He packed his bags and, dragging a reluctant Much in his wake, left without a backward glance, leaving me with bitter tears in my eyes and an unadorned hand.

More than five years on and the resentment has barely diminished, made worse by what is happening in Nottingham, by the indignities my father has to endure and the lengths I am prepared to go to to fight the injustice and tyranny that goes on in King Richard’s name. Hardly a day goes by when I do not finger my ringless left hand, wondering how different things might have been if Robin had stayed.

I’ve just turned two and twenty and have my whole life in front of me. But I want the life that is behind me, the one Robin denied me for the past five years. While he is happy living the life of an audacious thief, larking about in Sherwood Forest, I am housekeeper, nursemaid and companion to my ageing father, trying to keep us in the sheriff’s good books while at the same time secretly acting against him. Unlike Robin, I have grown up.

Well, very soon he will have to grow up, too. The game he is playing with the sheriff and Gisborne is about to become deadly serious. 

And so am I. 

“Marian?”

His query shakes me out of my reverie.

“What?” I lift my chin and meet his eyes. My heart constricts; my throat tightens. There is love in his eyes, even if it fails to make its way into the words he speaks; I look past his upper arm, determined not to fall into their blue depths or I shall most certainly drown.

“Are you going to let me in?”  

He takes another step, one booted foot on the threshold. Despite the chill wind, I can feel my neck and upper chest flushing hotly at his nearness. If Robin notices, he makes no mention of it.

“It’s a long walk from the forest and I wouldn’t mind warming myself by the fire.”

He rubs his gloveless hands together as if to emphasise his need for shelter and warmth.

 I shake my head. “My father is not here and I think it would be unwise to let you in.”

Robin glances behind him, turns back to me and gives me one of his infuriating grins. “Don’t worry, my love. There’s no one about and I assure you I shall act honourably. Well, mostly.”

He waggles his eyebrows at me and I snap. “Go back to the forest. Go practise shooting at squirrels or whatever it is you all do.” I step back a pace and start to close the door.

“What is it with you these days?” He thrusts his foot in the doorway so I cannot fully shut the door.

The tight little ball of anger in my chest expands; it balloons up into my neck, the back of my throat. It’s unstoppable and unfathomable. “There is someone else,” I say.

He removes his foot from the doorway and steps backwards, shaking his head from side to side, disbelieving. “I don’t understand.”

I should tell him there is no one else, it isn’t true, but, yet again, I find myself fingering my bare left hand.

“There is someone else.”

I have no idea why I repeated myself, why I am deliberately hurting him this way, but now I’ve said it a second time the idea of there being some other man in my life is starting to feel like something solid, real. Before this moment, I can honestly say there was no one else, but Guy of Gisborne has been attempting, albeit cautiously, to woo me for some time now and I have to admit he does, dare I say it, stir me. 

“Who else?” Robin barks. The fingers of his right hand curl around the hilt of his sword, as though he expects this other nameless man to step up behind me, half-dressed, hair tousled from sleep.

“Guy,” I reply, fiddling with my hairpins in an effort to avoid looking directly at Robin.

“Gisborne!” He runs a hand through his hair, steps towards me again. “Marian, you cannot possibly contemplate taking up with—”

“Do not tell me what I can and can’t do,” I cut across him.

“But Gisborne is a nasty, evil—”

“He has qualities, Robin. I believe he genuinely cares for me and...”

“And what?” Robin asks, hands on hips, clearly determined to dispute every good thing I have to say about his enemy.

My father’s carriage rumbles into view. Never have I been so glad of a distraction.

“You should go,” I tell him. “My father told you not come here in case the sheriff hears of it and thinks we are colluding with you.”

“I am going,” Robin says. “Because it’s clear you don’t want me here any more than your father does.”

He turns around and strides away, pulling his hood over his head as he does so.  

_Him..._

 

“You know the rules,” they say.

Rules. I hate rules.

“You have to realise that this is your last chance. We have given you a Task that even an utter screw-up like yourself should find easy. Complete this to our satisfaction and your gold wings will be returned and you can rejoin The Circle.”

I know what is coming, so I continue to keep my eyes on the ground, as The Circle closes around me and Grandmaster speaks. 

       Rule One:  Our purpose is to help people fall in love.

       Rule Two:  The path to true love is never smooth.

       Rule Three:  True love always wins.

I hate rules.

Will-o’-the-Wisp, fairy, spirit, Cupid (if you want to use my given name); call me what you will. You don’t believe in me anyway, do you? But I’m telling you. I’ve been watching that girl and him and they are heading for trouble – especially her. Silly girl. He’s mad about her and she can’t see it. He just doesn’t know how to say the words. Oh, he tries, starts off serious and then gets scared of who knows what and ruins things by making a jest or bragging about some deed he’s done. And the more he gets it wrong, the more she backs away from him.

I’m supposed to put it right. My last chance they said. And I could. In an instant. 

But I don’t care about The Circle. And the gold wings are far too heavy in any case. No. If I’m going to spend the next few weeks in this cold, damp forest, then I’m jolly well going to have some fun. After all, Rule Two more or less dictates it. It’s the only Rule I actually like. 

_There is someone else_.

I’m pleased with that. It’s one of my better lines. 

I watch the hooded one as he makes his way through the forest, clearly frustrated because his conversation with the girl did not go as he had planned. In fact, I can tell he is downright angry, kicking tree trunks and smashing at low-hanging branches with his sword. Temper, temper, young man.

Oh, yes! I’m going to have me some fun with this pair!

 


	3. Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marian's all confused.

_Her..._

Why did I tell Robin there was someone else? and why of all people did I choose Guy? If I simply wanted to make Robin jealous, I could have picked any number of eligible men that my father has introduced me to since he deemed me old enough to marry.

My father gingerly alights from the carriage. He sees me standing in the doorway and waves. I wave back. The coachman accepts a handful of coins and bids my father a good evening.

“Marian,” my father says, after giving my cheek a peck. “I trust you have not been standing in the doorway since I departed? I may be getting old, but I am still capable of looking after myself and finding my way home.”

I can hear the teasing tone beneath his words, along with a note of mild chastisement.

“Of course not, Father,” I say, taking his cloak from his shoulders and hanging it on a nearby peg. “I heard the carriage approaching and thought I would greet you.”

“Did we have a visitor?” he asks. “Only I thought I saw someone walking away from the house.”

“A pedlar. I sent him on his way. Sir Guy brings me enough trinkets to fill this house without us buying any more. Now, come warm yourself by the fire and I’ll tell Bessie she can serve supper.”

I hurry into the hall, my cheeks burning with shame. Yet again, I have lied to my father. He once told me that lies have a way of catching up with you and I wonder what I fear most: my father finding out the truth about my clandestine activities or the sheriff.

My father pours himself a drink and stands in front of the fire while I light some extra candles to brighten the room.

There’s a knock on the door. Relief floods through me. Robin has come back. I can tell him I am sorry, that I am not interested in Sir Guy of Gisborne. I will plead with my father to allow him into the house, just this once.

It is not Robin. It’s Guy.

“My lady,” he says, inclining his head politely.

“Sir Guy.”

He must have noticed the disappointment on my face, before I was able to mask it with a small smile, because he takes a step backwards and glances about him, as if he doesn’t quite know why he is standing on our doorstep.

I sense my father at my shoulder.

“To what do we owe this unexpected pleasure, Sir Guy?” my father asks.

My father says the word pleasure with no small amount of sarcasm.  He doesn’t like Sir Guy of Gisborne and does not attempt to hide his dislike.  

“A moment of your time, if you would be so good.”

Without waiting for my father’s permission, Guy pushes past us and enters the house. He makes straight for the hall. We follow. My father scowls, though he manages to rearrange his expression into one of mild displeasure rather than outright hostility as Guy removes his gloves and warms his hands over the fire.

Guy turns to face us. His eyes briefly flick to the laid table: goblets of wine, a pot of stew, bread and cheeses. He licks his lips.

“What is it you want?” my father asks. “Only my daughter and I were about to eat supper, as you can see.”

Guy eyes the table again with a look of longing and my innate upbringing prompts me to ask him if he would like something to drink.

He smiles and it shocks me. I’ve never seen him smile so openly before. Sneer, yes, and often, but not smile. It alters his whole face. It softens his eyes; eyes that I find are now studying me intently. Feeling uncomfortable, I go to the table and pour him a drink, even though he hasn’t actually said that he would like one.

“Well?” my father prompts.

Guy blinks rapidly, as if suddenly realising where he is. If he is aware of my father’s rudeness, he makes no mention of it.

“As you know, Edward, the sheriff plans—”

I press a drink into his hand. Our fingers briefly touch.

“Plans what?” my father asks.

Guy takes a gulp of wine, too large and too fast. He chokes.

My father crosses his arms and grunts. I am unsure whether to go to Guy’s aid and slap him on the back or stay where I am. I take a tentative step towards him and he waves me away.

Recovered, Guy puts his drink on the mantel behind him and then turns back to my father. He looks embarrassed and, for a moment, I feel sorry for him.

“The sheriff plans to hold an emergency council of nobles meeting tomorrow. This time, he would like everyone to be in attendance.”

Embarrassment and smiles over, Guy is back to his usual brusque self. His emphasis on the word everyone is a direct attack on my father. We have failed to turn up to the last two council meetings. My father cannot stand what Sheriff Vaisey is doing and has lost his stomach for such meetings, even though I insist we should go, if only to find out what the sheriff is planning next; what further outrage he is preparing to dump on the poor of Nottingham. 

My father remains stubbornly mute and I answer for him.

“We will be there, Sir Guy.”

“Good.”

Guy turns around and picks up his wine. My father and I stand awkwardly as he drinks, his eyes roaming our hall, looking cheerful with the newly lit candles and the flowers I picked this morning on both table and windowsill. He finishes his wine and offers me the empty goblet. I take it, careful not to accidentally touch his hand as I do so.

“Thank you, Marian. That was most agreeable.”

He again looks towards our food-laden table and I bite my tongue. I think my father would lock me up for a month if I were to invite Guy to dine with us.

“I will see you out,” I say, moving towards the door, catching my father’s relieved look as I do so.

Guy pulls on his leather gloves, bids my father good evening and follows me to the front door.

“Marian, I should like to—”

“Have a safe journey back to Nottingham,” I say, deliberately cutting him off. “We will see you at the meeting tomorrow.”

I close the heavy oak door before Guy has a chance to say anything more.

“Marian,” my father calls. “Come and eat before the food goes cold.”

I have lost my appetite and would prefer to go straight to bed, but I know it would displease my father and I will only sit in my room and fret about my earlier argument with Robin and Guy’s unsettling visit.

“I do not like that man,” my father says, savagely stabbing a piece of meat with his knife.

“He is only acting on the sheriff’s instructions,” I say.

My father points his meat-skewered knife at me. “How can you defend him, daughter. You know what he does. People’s tongues don’t leap out of their mouths on their own accord; women’s rings do not suddenly drop from their fingers; the wind does not stop blowing the mill’s sails round.”

“I was not defending him. I was just saying that—”

“He took Robin’s house and lands when he had no right to do so. The estate was entrusted to me to deal with as I saw fit, until Robin’s return.”

My father is angry. He is always angry these days. 

“I know, Father.” I pour and pass him another drink hoping to placate him. “But I am sure that things will change now that Robin is standing up to him and the sheriff.”

My father snorts. “Robin has not done much good so far, except to rile the sheriff even further. It might have been better if he’d never returned.”

I glare at him and my father gives me an apologetic look.

“I am sorry, Marian. I should not have said that. I know how you feel about Robin.”

If that is so, then my father knows more than I do.

It is late and, after saying goodnight to my father, I retire to my bedchamber.

I had planned to think about Robin, to work out how to patch up our quarrel. Instead, I find myself reliving the moment when Guy smiled at me; I feel a girlish pleasure and, I am mortified to say, a womanly excitement. 

I stare into the mirror and shake my head. What is the matter with me? Surely, I had just said that about Guy to make Robin jealous.

Frustrated, I climb into bed.

 _It has always been Robin, just Robin._  

Now, I find myself thinking of another man. A man I do not want to think about. And the more I try not to, the more he is there.  

It really feels as though someone is messing with my head and it’s something I could do without.

_Him..._

“Blimey, Robin. Be careful where you’re waving that bow. You could have had my eye out!”

Robin leans the offending bow up against a tree and offers Allan a mumbled apology.

I stop trying to wrap myself in leaves to keep warm and fly a little nearer to see what is happening.

It seems all the tree kicking and bush whacking he did on his way through the forest has not soothed him, hence brandishing his bow at all and sundry while cursing Gisborne and everything the man stands for.

Their leader’s foul mood is obvious and the gang quickly scatter, keen to keep out of his way. Only ever faithful Much, busy making supper, dares to approach the man he still thinks of as his master and asks what is troubling the young crusader. The only answer he gets is a frustrated growl.

The other gang members carry on with their business, while shooting the occasional glance at Robin, seated on a hewn tree trunk, head and shoulders slumped in defeat.

When supper is ready the gang head for their favoured seating places, bowl of meat and bread in hand, all giving their disgruntled leader a wide berth as they do so.

Tentatively, Much offers a food-filled bowl to Robin, the latter still staring at the ground.

“Supper?” Much taps Robin’s knee with the wooden bowl.

Honestly! That dimwit seems to think that food is the answer to everything. That’s me, Cupid, thinking that, not the aforementioned Robin. Do keep your wits about you, people!

Robin shakes his head.

I’m sure he means no to company as well as the food, but dill-brain plonks himself on the ground and starts tucking into Robin’s unwanted supper, making idle, one-sided chitchat that I won’t even bother to go into so uninteresting is it.

When there is nothing left to eat but the bowl itself, Much stands, brushing crumbs off his tunic and breeches.

“What happened?” he ventures. “I mean between you and Gisborne.”

Robin looks up, puzzled for a moment until he recalls his earlier rant.

“Nothing happened. At least, not between Gisborne and me. I went to see Marian and she said that she and...no!”

Robin leaps to his feet, causing Much to stumble backwards.

“She what?” Much asks in a small voice, clearly alarmed by Robin’s sudden vehemence. 

“She said he has qualities, for God’s sake!”

Much frowns. “Who has qualities? I don’t understand.”

“Gisborne,” Robin grinds out, fists clenched.

Much says, “I see.”

I’m not sure that he sees at all. Best stick to food and the eating thereof, my pudding-headed friend.

“I ought to...er...” Much flaps his arms towards his cooking pit and then half-runs in that direction. Matters of the heart, especially Robin’s heart, is something Much neither wants to know about nor professes to understand.

Grinning, I lazily hover above the hooded one’s head, watching as he kicks his empty food bowl across the camp. Good job Much skedaddled; he might well have been at the end of that angry boot.

So, how does it feel then, eh, Mr Smarty-Pants?  Thought you had the girl. Thought the ring was as good as on her finger and now this.

Actually, I thought he would shrug and say something like, _plenty of other fish in the sea,_ as he did in the Holy Land. Grandmaster showed me the scenes, so I know. But not here it seems. Not with her. 

Oh, well. He’ll get over it and I can always put things back to rights. I will have to get another arrow without The Circle knowing. And that might take a day or two. But what could possibly happen?  I mean she is hardly going to marry this Gisborne fellow, is she?

 


	4. Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marian has an idea.

_Her..._

As we get ready for the meeting, I tell myself that the butterflies fluttering around my insides have nothing to do with the prospect of seeing Guy today, that when I see him standing at the sheriff’s shoulder he will once again be the dark-hearted, cruel man I have always thought him to be. 

My father lingers, unwilling to get into the waiting carriage. 

“Please, Father,” I say. “We must go if only to show the sheriff that we will not take his laws lying down. That we are willing to stand up and fight for what we believe in.”

“What good will that do?” he says, resignation evident in his weary tone and the droop of his face. “The sheriff will only ridicule us in front of the other nobles. Is that what you want?”

My father is right. The last time he spoke up, stumbling over his words in his indignation, the sheriff made him a laughing stock, telling the hall at large that Sir Edward was a bumbling old man whose daughter most likely spoon-fed him his soup to keep it from dribbling down his sparsely bearded chin. He was equally disparaging to me, yet again bringing up my unmarried state.

“Would you have us hide in Knighton Hall?” I retort. “I would rather face a thousand of the sheriff’s cruel taunts than act in such a cowardly manner.”

“So, you think your father is a coward, do you?”

“I did not say that.”

I take my father’s arm and steer him determinedly towards the carriage. I heartily believe my words about standing up to the sheriff, but I also realise that a part of me wants to go today so I can remind myself that I should feel nothing but contempt for Guy of Gisborne.

We ride in silence for a while, and then my father starts grumbling again.  

“The sheriff would tax the very ground we walk on if he could.”

“Then we must learn to fly,” I say in an attempt to cheer him.

It works. My father smiles and pats the back of my hand.

“What would I do without you, my dearest daughter?”

Worry less is on the tip of my tongue, but I do not say it.

“We must not give up, Father,” I say. “No matter how much the sheriff and Gisborne bully us. We must fight the system from within. You said so yourself.”

“And how do we do that? I have approached the other nobles; men I thought would stand by me. But, one by one, they have given in to the sheriff’s demands. I fear all is lost, Marian.”

“I’m sure you are wrong,” I say. “There is always a way to fight back and we must do what we can to find that way.”

“Perhaps by helping Robin? is that what you are thinking?”

I shake my head. I was thinking of my Night Watchman stints and wondering if now would be a good time to tell my father what I do. I quickly dismiss the idea. Knowing my father, he would forbid me to do it again. My providing the poor and the sick with food and medicines is vital. Robin thieving from the wealthy for a living and giving that money to the poor is no reason for me to give up what I do. Besides, I’m half-expecting him to slip up one of these days and find himself locked in the castle dungeons, awaiting execution. I shake my head again, this time to dispel such a dismal thought.

“Robin is a fool defying the sheriff the way he does, out in the open.”

“You say that, Marian, yet I detect a note of admiration beneath your words. Had you been born a man, I think you might now be the one fleecing wealthy nobles of their coin and poking your tongue out at the sheriff in defiance.”

Had I been born a man, I’d do a lot more than poke my tongue out at the likes of Sheriff Vaisey, that’s for sure.

“Robin does what he does, and we must do what we must do,” I say. “And right now that means attending this council meeting.”

The carriage slows as it passes through the town gate in order to allow our driver to pay the requisite toll.

~

As we make our way up the castle steps, my thoughts return to Robin.

Will he show up here today? I doubt it. Not if he has any sense. I wish he would, though. I want to tell him I am sorry for the things I said. Perhaps when the meeting is finished I can find a way of escaping my father and go look for him.

My father growls and I look up and see Guy approaching. As he nears, he gives my father a hard stare and I am proud of my father when he stares right back, unafraid.

Flustered, Guy turns his attention to me. He gives me a dazzling smile, just as he did yesterday when I offered him wine. The butterflies in my stomach, reawakened, begin their crazy dance again. I manage a hesitant smile in return.

“May I have the honour of escorting you to the chamber, my lady?” Guy offers me his arm.

I glance at my father, trying to convey the message that it would be unwise to refuse. He gives the slightest of nods.

“Of course, Sir Guy,” I say, a little too brightly.

I hook my arm through his and allow him to lead me up the rest of the steps, my father following in our wake.

~

The meeting went as my father predicted – one tax after another, the nobles all nodding their assent. My father did not nod, but nor did he offer dissent. He knew he was outnumbered.  

I’m afraid I had only half an ear on the proceedings. Normally I would pay close attention so I can pass everything on to Robin, but not today.  

Guy, his face impassive, had stood at the sheriff’s shoulder as usual, but as the sheriff droned on and on, I thought I detected a hint of discomfort on his face. And when the sheriff came to his final announcement – a tax for every peasant who owns a plough – Guy turned his attention to the floor, as though ashamed. 

I started to wonder.

Could this be a way to get to the sheriff, through his right-hand man? Could I turn Guy against his protector and benefactor?

My earlier words came back to me: fight the system from within. Should I pretend to care for Guy, let him think that his tentative wooing is starting to win me over?

“...and if Hood thinks that he can get away with stealing our hard-earned taxes, taxes destined for the Richard the Lionheart and his noble crusade, then he’s got another think coming. Double the bounty on his head, Gisborne.”

The sheriff’s words bring me out of my reverie. How can I possibly think about cosying up to Guy when Robin is the one who holds my heart?

My father half rises from his seat. I grab his arm and urge him to sit down. He tries to shrug me off and I give Guy a desperate look. If my father antagonises the sheriff, the consequences might be dire for both my father and me.

“Thereby concludes our business for today, my lords.” Guy looks at me and inclines his head in acknowledgement. “And my lady.”

The sheriff whacks him on the arm and tells him off for presuming to close the meeting without the sheriff’s say so. Guy remains tight-lipped as the rest of the nobles rise. Intentional or not, Guy has successfully prevented my father from roaring his disapproval at the sheriff. I shoot him a grateful look as everyone heads for the door and he gives me a small smile in return.

Maybe I should get close to Guy. After all, Robin need never know, and if he does find out then I can tell him it’s all pretence, that I care nothing for Guy of Gisborne. Nothing at all.

 

_Him..._

Phew! Retrieving another arrow had been harder than I expected. 

Now, let’s see what’s been happening while I’ve been away. 

Silly girl is still being silly and without me having to intervene at all. Getting there all by herself, she is. All I had to do was open her eyes a bit, help her see that the dark one has a heart hidden away under all that leather and she’s off and running. I couldn’t have planned it better if I’d tried.

Now, how about the hooded one. Still in a mood, I see.

“Look, not being funny, Robin, but you never said nothing about no meeting.”

“Yeah. I thought we were going to grab those taxes making their way out of Nottingham today?”

Will Scarlet is right. You’ve forgotten about them, haven’t you? Now here’s a dilemma.  Her or those taxes? Taxes will come and go of course. But there will only ever be one Marian.

I can almost see the little cogs in his head turning. He doesn’t know what to do. His heart is telling him one thing and his head is telling him another.

After a short burst of pacing and scratching his bearded chin, he finally decides he can deal with both the taxes and the girl, so confident is he in his own abilities.

The plan goes without a hitch. Once Djaq has done her fainting bit and John and Allan have made the switch – Will’s replacement boxes a perfect match – it was easy to make off with the two chests of ill-gotten tax monies.

Now for the girl.

“They’re still in the council meeting,” Much whispers in Robin’s right ear.

“It’ll be over soon, Much.”

“Yes, but how are you going to get her attention without drawing attention to yourself?”

Ah, dimwit has a brain, after all.

“I’ll think of something. Now you keep guard as instructed. And come and get me the moment you sniff trouble.”

Much shakes his head, clearly unimpressed.

I flap my wings in annoyance. I should have encouraged the girl to leave the meeting with leather pants. I would have loved to see the look on Robin’s face as she walked down the corridor in friendly conversation with the outlaw’s nemesis. It might have even led to a punch up. What fun!

 


	5. Part 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things start to get interesting, from Cupid's perspective, anyway.

_Her..._

 

The meeting finished, I hurry ahead of my father, feigning personal needs. 

I espy Guy and start after him. He rounds a corner and I am about to do likewise when something strikes my behind. I manage to stifle a yelp. I know even before I look behind me that I will find a grey and white goose feather-fletched arrow lying on the stone slabs.

Robin slips from the shadows. He scoops up his arrow and replaces it in his quiver.

I give him a murderous look. “Can you not get my attention other than by shooting an arrow at me?” I’m actually angrier about losing Guy than I am about having an arrow jab my backside. Petulantly, I decide that I no longer want to patch up my earlier quarrel with Robin, that he can go on thinking I am interested in Guy.

“Just practising,” he says.

He grins, which infuriates me even more.

Grabbing his arm, I pull him back into the shadows.

“You fool,” I hiss. “What are you doing here? This place is crawling with nobles right now, men who would turn you over to the sheriff in an instant if it would serve their purpose.”

“I came to talk to you.”

“Then talk,” I say. “And make it quick. My father is waiting for me.”

He glances up and down the gloomy corridor. “Not here. Come on.”

Before I have a chance to protest, he snatches up my hand and pulls me towards a door behind which is the armoury. It is unlocked. We slip inside the weapon-filled room and he closes the door behind us. The room is gloomy, lit only by a thin shaft of sunlight pushing through a solitary slit window.

My heart starts to beat unnaturally fast, though I’m not sure whether it’s because I’m behind closed doors with Robin or because of what might happen to us if someone enters the room and finds us here.

“Speak quickly,” I say. “And then let me go.”

“I’m not holding you prisoner, Marian. I just—”

He slaps a silencing hand on my mouth and we listen as booted feet, a pair of them by the sound of it, near and then fade away. I mumble something under Robin’s warm palm and he removes his hand.

“Robin,” I whisper. “This is madness. If you are caught here, the sheriff will lock you in the dungeons and call for the executioner.”

“And would that bother you so very much?” he asks.

“What do you mean, would it bother me. Of course it would.”

He gives me a disbelieving look. “Most of the time you seem exasperated with me. You think what I am doing is foolish, that I am playing silly boys’ games, stealing purses and waving them under the sheriff’s nose.”

“And isn’t that what you are doing?”

“No. What I am trying to do is make a difference, to make my peasants’ lives better or at least tolerable. I don’t see your Gisborne contributing to their welfare other than by saving them the bother of speech.”

“He is not _my_ Gisborne.”

“You implied the other day that he was. You told me there was some other man in your life and that that man was Gisborne. Are you now telling me differently?”

He grasps both my wrists, forcing me to face him.    

“I...I did not mean it like that.”

“Then how did you mean it?”

“I don’t know.”

It’s true. I don’t. I don’t know what made me say it, other than the fact I was angry with Robin and wanted to hurt him.

I am still hurting him. I can see it in his eyes, feel it in the tremble of his hands, hands usually so steady, at least when it comes to aiming that precious bow of his.

“I care nothing for Guy,” I say. “At least...”

“At least what?”

Robin’s grip tightens around my wrists.

“I believe that if he were not in thrall to the sheriff, he could be a better man.”

Robin snorts and my anger returns.

“He deserves a chance,” I say.

“And what about me?” Robin asks. “Don’t I deserve a chance...another chance?”

“Another chance?” I repeat, puzzled.

He lets go of my wrists and takes a couple of steps backwards. He glances at the swords, shields and other deadly equipment lining the walls of the armoury and licks his lips, as though steeling himself to say something of import.

“I made a mistake, Marian, going to the Holy Land to fight in a war I understood little about. I made a mistake leaving you. I know that now.”

I’ve waited for this apology for a long time. Yet still I hesitate to offer him the words he wants to hear: that I understand and forgive him. Today I had a plan. I would gain Guy’s trust, let him believe I care for him and I would find out everything the sheriff was up to, learn things that might end his tyrannical rule of Nottingham. Robin turning up has thrown me off balance. Now I don’t know what to do for the best. Even if I tell Robin my overtures towards Guy are nothing more than pretence, will he believe me after my impassioned words yesterday about Guy having qualities and caring for me.

I feel I should at least say something to ease his mind.

“You say you made a mistake leaving England, yet you come back to Nottingham and within two days you are an outlaw, living in the forest, with a price on your head. You might as well be back in the Holy Land thousands of miles away as far as I am concerned.”

I clamp my lips together, mortified that instead of soothing him I am scolding him. I really don’t understand where such vitriol is coming from. He looks so serious and sad standing there, all skin and bone, the man who, as a boy, used to tweak my plaits and run away laughing. I don’t want to be mean to him. I want to hug him. I want him to hug me.

“I am sorry,” he says. “I had to do what I thought was right.”

He is close to tears and I think it has to do with more than just leaving me all those years ago.

“Marian, if I could change the past, if I could—”

He falters, clears his throat. It’s more than I can bear. Five years I’ve waited for him to come home, and here he is, here we are, alone, together.

I step towards him, heart racing, anticipating his touch, his kiss. He is looking at me but his attention is elsewhere.

Then I hear it, too – footsteps.

We stand motionless, he with his eye on the door behind me, hand on the hilt of his sword, me glancing around for the nearest weapon I might grab.

“He’s not here,” a voice says.

“He has to be,” another returns. “You go down there and I’ll see if—”

“Much,” Robin calls.

“Robin?”

Robin lets go of his sword and strides to the door.

I know it’s not Much’s fault, but, right now, I really hate the stupid little man.

Robin opens the door and yanks Much into the armoury.

“What are you doing in here when—” Much notices me. “Ah.” He flicks his eyes between Robin and me, says, “Ah,” again, followed by a mumbled, “Sorry, I didn’t realise that—”

“What is it, Much?” Robin asks. “Trouble?”

Much says, “Sort of.”

He doesn’t elaborate but he doesn’t need to. Robin can hear the panic in his voice and knows that his men need him.

“Sorry, Marian. I have to go.”

I nod, unable to speak, angry tears crowding my eyes. His men need him and their needs are immediate. Mine, it seems, can wait.

Pulling his hood over his head, Robin follows Much out the door. 

I wait until I am sure they are out of earshot and then slam the door, allowing my warm tears to spill down my cheeks.

 

_Him..._

My word, that was close. I thought for a moment they were going to end up in each other’s arms and that would never do. Not if I’m to disprove Rule Three.

You remember Rule Three, don’t you? No? Well, look it up.

I’d been so busy congratulating myself on encouraging her to follow leather pants that I completely forgot to look out for the hooded one, lurking in the shadows. Those tear-filled eyes of his nearly ruined everything – for me, that is. Thankfully, dimwit turned up just in time. Saved the day, actually. They were that close to kissing and I can’t be doing with that, not when there’s a good chance of some action of the fisted kind between the good one and the not so good one. Don’t look at me like that. Do you know how boring watching all that kissy stuff can get when you’ve seen it a thousand times over. Give me a rip-roaring argument and a punch up any day.

I decide to leave the girl in the armoury. Can’t stand blubbering women.

The gang are in a bit of a pickle, their escape route blocked by guards. The Saracen girl comes up with a plan that involves stuffing a rolled up tunic under her shirt and stumbling towards the guards, moaning and gasping and babbling on about the baby coming. Suitably concerned, the guards lower their weapons and the gang pounce on them. After that, it all goes swimmingly and they are soon beyond the walls of Nottingham and heading for their forest home. Fancy that! A Saracen woman saving their arses!

I yawn. It’s been a busy day and I’m ready for some shuteye. However, something the sandy-haired cutpurse says piques my interest. I fly in for a closer listen.

“You’re not going to like this, Robin.”

“Tell me.”

Hoody Two Shoes (see what I did there!) probably figures his day can’t get any worse.

“While I was snooping around in the market earlier, pinching me a few fat purses and whatnot, I heard Gisborne talking to someone about acquiring a horse. He said he wanted it today. Said money was no object.”

“So?”

“Gisborne said the horse was intended for a lady, and when the man suggested something docile, Gisborne shook his head and said no, he wanted a horse with a bit of spirit.”

Robin gives Allan a puzzled look.

Oh, come on! Even the torches have gone on in Much’s unfurnished house.

“It’s for Marian, ain’t it,” Allan says. “We all know Gisborne’s been buying her gifts lately.”

Robin scowls, as well he might.

You’ve never given her anything, have you, my hooded friend? Apart from heartache, that is. I know you’re living something of a complicated life these days, but picking a few flowers is the work of a moment and it wouldn’t cost you anything either. Of course, leather pants is about to give her a horse, and one to her liking by the sounds of it. Hard to compete with that. Nevertheless, if you only understood her better you’d realise that a few wilted flowers picked by your hand would mean more to her than any horse (personally, I’d go for the horse, but that’s women for you. Soppy creatures).

“Where are you going?” Much cries, as Robin turns on his heel and strides away from the gang.

Robin waves him away and keeps walking. Much chases after him.

“Well?” he asks.

“I’m going to Knighton. I need to talk to Marian.”

“But what if Gisborne’s on his way there. Allan said he wanted the horse today. That means he must want to give it to Marian as soon as possible. You can’t go on your own, not if—”

“I’m going, Much, all right. I need to tell Marian something, something I should have told her long ago and I need to do it before Gisborne does.”

With that, Robin breaks into a run and Much knows he’ll never catch up with him. Robin is the fastest runner in the gang.

I do a somersault of glee, bang my pudgy little feet into a nearby tree to give me a bit of thrust and shoot off after him. There’s every chance he’ll run into leather pants, and I want to be around when he does.  


	6. Part 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Marian gets a gift. Cupid gets more than he bargained for.

_Her..._

 

“Someone has made you cry, Marian. Was it Gisborne? Did he say something as we left the meeting? Threaten you in any way?”

I could lie, tell my father it’s the cold wind stinging my eyes or that I have developed a sudden reaction to the advent of spring, but we have done this journey many times in similar conditions; he will not believe me. Even so, I am not ready to tell him about my quarrel with Robin or our meeting in the armoury just a short while ago, not until I can better understand myself what is happening between Robin and me. So, a half-lie, then.

“No. It wasn’t anything Guy said or did. I am just disheartened. No one is willing to stand up with us and object to the sheriff’s ridiculous taxes. I hate feeling so powerless.”

“There is no point in getting worked up about it,” my father says.

I smile. Not so long ago I’d said the exact same thing to him.

“I know, Father. I think I am simply tired and hungry. I’m sure I will feel better when we are home and supper is on the table.”

My father sinks back into his seat with a weary sigh. “I’m inclined to agree. Those meetings go on interminably and never do they offer us refreshment; not even a cup of water.”

“The sheriff would probably charge for it if he did,” I say.

My father chuckles.

Moments later, he is slumped in the corner of the carriage asleep and I am free to wipe my tear-filled eyes and think my own thoughts. Except that those thoughts are all over the place, flitting from what happened – or rather, what did not happen – in the armoury, to the sheriff’s latest extortionate and ludicrous taxes and, finally, to Guy and my proposed duping of him. One moment I am sure what to do, the next full of doubts. Why is life so complicated?

Once home, however, I start to feel better. Tonight I shall be the Night Watchman, distributing food and medicines to the poor and the sick. This part of my life at least seems easy in comparison with the rest.

Bessie serves supper: a simple affair of bread and cheeses, fruit and wine.

My stomach grumbles and I tear off a piece of bread, but before I have taken more than a couple of mouthfuls there is a knock on the door.

My father grunts in annoyance and starts to rise from his chair.

“Sit and eat,” I tell him. “I will answer it.”

The caller raps again, three times. I recognise the knock. I catch Bessie heading for the door and tell her that I will answer it myself and she may return to the kitchen.

“Guy,” I say, summoning a smile and hoping I don’t have crumbs around my mouth. “I would not have expected to see you at this late hour.” I make it sound as though his call is a pleasant surprise, when in fact I mean the opposite.

“Apologies,” he says, “but I needed to see you.”

Without waiting for an invitation, he pushes past me and makes for the hall. I follow, quietly cursing.

“Father,” I say with false brightness. “We have a visitor.”

My father stabs his knife into a piece of cheese and stands. Guy glances uneasily about him.

“Forgive me, Sir Edward. I did not realise you were in the midst of a meal.”

Guy looks at me somewhat helplessly and then turns his attention to our supper. I wonder if he has had a chance to eat since the meeting ended.

“Would you care to join us?” I ask.

“Thank you, Marian.” His face lights up in unrestrained joy. “I would be delighted.”

Guy removes his gloves and his broadsword, handing them to me. My father gives me a furious scowl, grunts loudly and sits. He resumes eating without looking at either Guy or me.

“Please, sit,” I say.

Guy pulls out a chair and warily sits, as though afraid the simple wooden chair will not bear his weight; his leather creaks as he does so. I pour him wine and tell him to help himself to food. He makes a mess of tearing his bread and apologises profusely when he drops a lump of cheese on the floor. My father refuses to make conversation, instead chewing with his mouth open and staring resolutely into his goblet of wine. I make small talk about the weather and the upcoming Nottingham fayre and Guy answers politely, occasionally looking up at me and smiling but mostly keeping his eyes on his meal. To say supper was a strained affair would be an understatement. I think we are all glad when the meal is over.

My father rings for Bessie to clear the table. She is taken aback to see Guy sitting with us and when it comes to clearing away his platter and empty goblet, she fumbles, knocking the goblet into his lap.

“You clumsy woman,” Guy says, forgetting where he is.

“The goblet was empty so no harm done,” I say cheerily. “That will be all, Bessie.”

Bessie turns and flees. Guy glances around the room, embarrassed by his ungracious outburst. 

My father yawns and mumbles something about it being late and going to bed. It is not that late and Guy frowns, discerning that my father wishes him gone.

“I will see you out,” I say, retrieving Guy’s gloves and broadsword.

As we approach the front door, Guy says, “Thank you for your hospitality. It was most delightful. I am not used to eating in pleasant company.”

I almost laugh. I would not have called our awkward supper delightful, nor my father’s company pleasant, but Guy clearly favours both over sharing a table with the sheriff. I bite my tongue so as not to say that he is welcome to join us any time. I can only imagine how irate my father might be with me were I to do such a thing.

“Have a safe ride home,” I say.  

Guy slaps his forehead. “Forgive me, Marian. I am afraid that your supper invitation made me quite forgetful. I have a gift for you.”

I manage to suppress a sigh and say, “You are too kind, but I really do not need—”

Guy grabs my arm. He yanks me outside, spins me around and covers my eyes with his hands. I am in darkness, the smell of leather going up my nostrils.

“Let go of me,” I protest. “What are you doing?”

“Do not be alarmed, Marian. A surprise, that is all.”

He walks me backwards, about ten paces, then stops, turns me around and takes his gloved hands from my eyes.

The horse is beautiful. Dark brown, almost black, coat gleaming. A stallion. One look from my trained eye tells me he has spirit. One look from Guy tells me he is mine. 

“Do you like it?” he asks.

“Yes, but it is too much...”

“Too much horse?” he ventures.

I shake my head, laughing. “No. I can handle him. It is too much of a gift.”

“I would buy the world for you, Marian, if it would make you happy.”

Guy moves closer to me, so that our arms are touching.

“I do not need the world,” I reply, taking a small step away from him.

“No,” he says. “What you need is a man – a husband.”

His words are plain, his meaning clear. 

To avoid answering, I walk over to the stallion and stroke its powerful neck and flank. Guy follows.

“Beautiful,” he says, laying a hand on the small of my back. 

“I am not sure that—”

“Be sure,” Guy cuts across me. His hand drops away. “You will accept the horse,” he says.

It is not a question.

Take it, take it, a voice in my head is saying. I nod and turn to face him.

Guy’s smile is smug. For a moment, he reminds me of Robin. His eyes drink me in and I realise that by accepting the horse I have made some sort of bargain with him. Strangely, it does not upset me.

 

 

_Him..._

 

Ha! That was so easy. I’d like to think the horse was my idea, but the dark one’s mind is a frightening place to linger in. Much easier to let him go his own way and convince the girl that she’s on to a good thing with this one.

Of course, Hoody Two Shoes is also making my life easy. Hiding in the bushes, watching Marian coo over the horse, when he should be over there beating Leather Pants into a pulp.

If I’d been paying better attention, however, I’d have known that Hood wasn’t just sitting and watching. He was thinking and planning. It is only as Guy takes his leave of Marian and Robin starts to follow him that I catch on.

The outlaw is not going to appeal to the girl again. After all, his earlier attempts didn’t really go as planned. No, this time he’s going to go after the man who’s trying to take her away from him.

Oh, goody, goody. I might be in for some fun at last!

~

Leather Pants is in no hurry to return to the castle. He wants to savour this evening without the sheriff bawling in his ear hole. Giving Marian the horse had been a very good move on his part. When he hears the soft crunch of booted feet following him, however, he thinks that taking the Great North Road through the forest is a very bad move.

He wheels his horse around, one hand reaching for his sword. When he sees it is Robin, and that the outlaw is alone, he breathes easier.

“Spying on me, Hood?”

They are a long way from the outlaws’ camp, exactly how Robin wants it.

“She’ll see through you, Gisborne. Marian is an astute woman.”

Guy dismounts and approaches the outlaw. He is so puffed up with success today that he probably thinks he could walk on water if he tried.

“I agree,” he says, his lips curling up in a smirk. “And being such an astute woman she will know which of the two of us would make the better catch. Now, what is it you have to offer her? A bed on the forest floor, surrounded by a bunch of outlaw scum.”

Surely you’re not going to take that lying down, my hooded friend.

He is not.

Robin drops his bow, unbuckles his quiver and drops that too. He unsheathes his blade. Guy’s eyes widen as the outlaw hurls it aside and raises his fists. Moments later, Guy discards his sword and mirrors Robin’s stance.

I turn a somersault in the air. Hurrah! Fisticuffs!

I don’t know who threw the first punch, I was that excited. Faces, stomachs, necks and backs. No rules, no quarter given. They were out to bloody and break one another good and proper. They traded insults, too; harsh, bitter words about the war, King Richard, Nottingham and, of course, the girl.

Hot and sweaty, breathing fast, they paused only once in order to remove their outer clothing: Guy his doublet and Robin his jerkin.

Then it happened.

As Gisborne tumbled down an incline, he caught his sleeve on a jagged branch and it tore. The outlaw dived on after him, unwilling to give up the fight.

Gisborne was on his back, dazed.

Robin gasped. Memories flooded his mind (mine, too – his memories, that is). Saracens attacking the crusader camp. Calling for Much. A white-hot pain in his side as a dagger plunged into his flesh. Rushing to the king’s tent despite the pain. A Saracen about to kill the king. Swords clashing. Slicing flesh. A tattoo. The tattoo now exposed on the dark one’s arm.

Oh my golly gosh! Now that I wasn’t expecting. Clearly, Grandmaster hadn’t shown me all there was to know about the girl’s former betrothed. Just like the great winged fart to withhold a good story.

Robin stares at Guy, blinks and stares again, as if he can’t believe what he is seeing.

“You!” he says. “You were the one who tried to kill the king in the Holy Land. You were the one who stabbed me.”

He reaches into his boot and pulls out a dagger.

Uh oh.

I can’t stop it. I help people fall in love (supposedly). I can’t stop a crazed man wielding a dagger any more than I can stop the sun from climbing into the sky each morning. All I can do is watch, as helpless as Gisborne, as the outlaw raises the dagger, ready to plunge it into the dark one’s heart.  

 


	7. Part 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is not the way it was supposed to go.

_Her..._

 

He is mine. This beautiful horse. I don’t care what price I have to pay for keeping him. I don’t care that I might be beholden to Guy in some way, or that it will upset Robin that I have accepted such a gift. Right now, all I can see is this gorgeous creature, saddled and ready for me to ride.

I rush inside to tell my father about the horse, to tell him I am going riding despite the late hour.

My father is in his bedchamber. I knock on the door and he bids me enter.

“Are you really going to bed now?” I ask. “I thought that was just to get rid of Guy. The sun hasn’t even set yet.”

“Is he gone?” my father asks.

“Yes. He gave me a horse, as a gift.”

“That makes a change from hair ornaments and necklaces, I must say.”

“It is a fine horse, Father.”

“So you have accepted his gift?”

“Yes.”

“And did he ask for anything in return?”

“No. I believe he just wants to be friends, with us.”

My father snorts. “Gisborne has no love for me. It is you he is after, daughter.”

“I know.”

“What will you do?”

I give my father an impish grin. “I will stable the horse and do my embroidery until it is time for bed.”

My father says, “You could do worse than marry Gisborne, but as long as he works for the sheriff, I could not countenance such a thing. Besides, I know your heart still belongs to Robin and perhaps when times are better—”

“I should go see to my horse,” I interrupt. I do not want to think about Robin or Guy right now. I want to ride my stallion and forget about men for a while.

“You would rather spend time with a horse than your loving father?” my father says, a tease in his voice. He waves me away. “Go on. I will see you later, or in the morning if I am already abed.”

~

The horse tosses its head as I approach, unsure of me. A few whispered words and some reassuring stroking soon calms it enough for me to win its trust. I lead it to the stables in case my father is watching out the window. He did not forbid me to go riding, but neither did he say I could do so.

Out of sight of the house, I swing into the saddle of my dark beauty. Ah, ha! A name: Beauty. Probably not a fitting name for a stallion, but I can think of no other right now, so Beauty it is.

As soon as Beauty has grown used to the sound of my voice and the touch of my hands on the reins we set off. As Knighton disappears from view, a feeling of disloyalty comes over me. I push it away. Why should I feel disloyal to Robin? I owe him nothing.

I urge Beauty into a gallop. On impulse, I make for Sherwood. Find Robin, a voice in my head seems to be saying. Find him and show him the gorgeous gift that Guy of Gisborne gave you; make the outlaw jealous.

~

With the sun sinking low, the forest is gloomy and I think that perhaps I have made a mistake coming this way and should head back home. I can find Robin another day.

Then I hear voices. Men arguing by the sound of it. I walk Beauty a little closer. In between the verbal abuse, I hear groans and gasps, wood snapping, the dull thud of fists connecting with flesh. I shiver, as if I have caught a sudden chill. It is Robin and Guy, fighting. I dismount and lead Beauty up a steep incline.

What I see, when I reach the top of the hill, makes me sick to my stomach. Battered and bleeding, hurling obscenities at each other, Robin and Guy are brawling on the forest floor.

Beauty’s ears swivel nervously and I stroke his neck to calm him.

Robin punches Guy on the jaw and Guy stumbles backwards, spitting blood.

My horse whinnies and I expect both men to look up and see me, but they have eyes and ears only for each other.

Guy pushes off the ground and charges at Robin. Robin sidesteps with an exultant, “Ah, ha!”

Incensed, Guy scoops up a fallen branch and whacks Robin’s legs. Robin falls and Guy jumps on top of him. They grapple for a moment and then Robin shoves Guy away and Guy tumbles down a steep slope, snagging his sleeve on a jagged branch as he does so. Robin half runs, half slides down the hill after him.

Guy is on his back, dazed. Robin stands over him, his right arm pulled back as though to hit him, except that he doesn’t. Instead, he stares, blinks and stares again, his raised arm frozen in the air, as if he can’t believe what he is seeing.

“You!” he says. “You were the one who tried to kill the king in the Holy Land. You were the one who stabbed me.”

He reaches into his boot and pulls out a dagger.

“No!” I scream.

Beauty rears up and I lose hold of his reins. He bolts.

“Stop this,” I shout, running down the hill towards the two men.

“Traitor!” Robin screams into Guy’s cut and dirty face.

“Robin, no, no!” I trip and tumble down the final few yards of the hill.

“Marian,” Robin says, rolling me over, his bleeding, mud-smeared face full of concern. “Are you all right?”

I nod and sit up.

“Please,” I say, my throat tight, tears blurring my vision. “Tell me you did not kill him.”

“Believe me, I wanted to.”

The fight gone out of him, Robin crashes to the ground.

Wiping my eyes, I turn towards Guy. He is still lying on the ground, but his eyes are open. Despite the dagger buried in his shoulder blade, there is a look of triumph on his face, as though he has won the fight.

 

_Him..._

He has won the fight, you silly girl. Can’t you see that? There’s your darling Robin, bruised and bleeding, in need of some tender loving care, but it’s Guy you’re crawling towards, Guy you’re worried about. Then again, it’s hardly surprising; the man does have a ruddy great dagger sticking out of him.

Leather Pants closes his eyes and moans.

Oh, you’re a crafty one, aren’t you? Going to milk this for all it’s worth.

Realising that Marian is heading for Gisborne, Robin staggers to his feet. He grabs hold of the hem of her dress, halting her progress.

Marian swings around, angry.

“It was him,” Robin says, nodding towards Gisborne.

“What was him?” Marian asks, yanking her dress from Robin’s grip.

“In Acre. He was the one who tried to kill the king.”

“Rubbish,” Marian retorts. She reaches Gisborne and takes off her neck scarf. “I am going to pull it out,” she says, “and it will hurt. Are you ready?”

He nods.

Marian pulls out the dagger and Gisborne gives an exaggerated yell. Then she rips open his shirt and presses her scarf to the injury, staunching the bleeding.

Gisborne gives her a grateful look. “Thank you, Marian.”

“Hold it in place with your other hand until I can find a better solution.”

He does so.

Robin’s face is like thunder.

“It is not rubbish, Marian. It is true. In Acre, a Saracen tried to kill the king. Well, I thought it was a Saracen. But it was Gisborne, dressed as one.”

Satisfied that Leather Pants is in no immediate danger, Marian turns to face the outlaw.

“What are you talking about? Guy was never in the Holy Land.”

“I’m telling you he was. Saracens came to the king’s camp and attacked. While we were trying to defend it, someone stabbed me. I followed that man to the king’s tent. We fought. I cut his arm, his tattoo. Look.”

Robin pushes the torn sleeve up Gisborne’s arm (fortunately for Gisborne, not the one holding the scarf to his cut and bleeding shoulder) revealing the evil-looking black tattoo, spliced by a scar.

“I don’t believe you,” Marian says, eyeing Gisborne who is still play-acting being in terrible pain for all he’s worth. (I expect he actually is in quite a bit of pain, but nothing that warrants that much moaning and groaning).

“He was there, Marian. That tattoo is the proof.”

“You are mistaken,” she says, returning her attention to Robin. “You were badly hurt in Acre. Much told me you nearly died from the fever that followed. Perhaps you became confused in your delirium, choosing to believe something that never really happened.”

Robin shakes his head. “No. I am right about this.”

“Marian,” Gisborne says in a weak, pity-me-please tone of voice. “Hood is lying. I have never been to the Holy Land. I was not there.”

“Liar!” Robin pushes Marian out of the way and cuffs Gisborne’s face, once, twice.

“Robin! Stop it! What is the matter with you?”

The outlaw growls in frustration and shuffles backwards. Marian picks up the bloodied scarf and hands it back to Sir look-what-your-boyfriend-did-to-me Guy.

“Do you think you can walk?” she asks.

“I think so,” he answers, still using his pathetic, full of suffering voice. He gets to his feet and feigns a dizzy moment.

Marian turns to Robin, who is blocking the way to Gisborne’s horse.

“Robin,” she says, aware that Leather Pants is holding her hand while at the same time pretending that she hasn’t noticed. “Even if what you say is true, we need to get Guy back to the castle and tend to his wound.”

“No,” he says. “Gisborne is a traitor and I will prove it.”

“A moment ago you tried to kill him. How is that proving anything other than the fact you have become a killer?”

Gisborne squeezes Marian’s hand in agreement.

“Gisborne deserves to die for what he did. Marian, we are talking treason.”

“If he did what you say he did—”

“I did not!” Gisborne barks.

Marian yanks her hand from his in annoyance.

“If,” she continues, “Guy did try to kill the king, he should be tried by a court of law. Isn’t that the Robin Hood way? What happened to all your ideals about justice and the right to trial?”

“Justice!” Robin all but spits the word. “Marian. The law in Nottingham right now is the sheriff. What kind of justice do you think he would mete out? Gisborne is his right hand man and I believe he acted on the sheriff’s orders; he is not the sort to act alone in such a venture.”

Marian opens her mouth as though to protest and then closes it. Robin can see the uncertainty in her eyes.

“How are going to prove that he did what he did?”

“I don’t know. I will think of something.”

Without warning, Robin leaps towards Gisborne. Roughly pushing Marian out of the way, he whisks the bloodied scarf from Gisborne’s grip and spins the man around. Leather Pants yelps in fright.

“Robin! What are you doing?” Marian demands.

“I’m going to blindfold him and take him back to the camp. Djaq can see to his wound, while I decide what I am going to do.”

“No,” Marian says. “I will not allow it.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t trust you not to stab him the moment you are out of my sight.”

“He will do it,” Gisborne says, no longer feeling quite so triumphant about his situation.

“If what you say is true,” Marian says, “and you can find a way to prove it, then so be it. You know I will support you. But I will not support you in this, Robin. If you will not help me take him back to Nottingham, then I will do it alone.”

Robin shoves Gisborne away, furious.

There is darkness in the outlaw’s heart. The girl has always suspected such and now she has seen it firsthand. He didn’t kill Leather Pants earlier because she was there, but if Robin is alone with Gisborne there is no telling what he will do. Marian has two choices. Either she goes with Robin to the camp to see that Gisborne is well treated or she tells Robin to get lost and takes Gisborne back to Nottingham herself. Neither prospect holds much appeal.

“Will you help me get Guy onto a horse?” she asks, her mind made up.

Robin shakes his head. However, he does step out of Marian and Guy’s path, doubtless realising that he has lost this particular argument with the girl. He could stop her, of course, but he won’t, not if he knows what’s good for him. He is exhausted and he’s seen Marian in action. Right now, she could probably best him blindfold.  

He watches as Gisborne climbs awkwardly into the saddle. Marian swings up behind him and winds her arms around his waist. Holding the reins in one hand, the other clamped to his bloody shoulder, Gisborne clicks the horse to move off.

The outlaw watches, arms limp by his sides, the fight gone out of him. He is still in shock over the terrible truth he found out about Gisborne today, and Marian riding off with the man has only added to that shock.

Trembling, he leans against a nearby tree, glad of its solidity when the world seems to be sliding from under him. He wipes his face with the back of his hand and is confused to find it bloody, the punch up all but forgotten since discovering that damning tattoo on Gisborne’s arm.

The tears come without warning; I certainly wasn’t expecting them. He’s not a heroic crusader now, not even an outlaw; he’s a young man who’s starting to realise that the world is full of treachery.

He falls to his knees, sobbing, and a lump wriggles up my throat. I was just having a bit of fun. I didn’t expect this outpouring of grief.

As I ponder how to put it right, a force I know very well yanks me out of the forest and I find myself back in The Circle, facing Grandmaster. And if looks could kill, then I am one very dead spirit.

 


	8. Part 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Guy gets away with it. Cupid gets a bollocking.

_Her..._

 

I looked over my shoulder several times during our ride to Nottingham, to see if Robin was following us. If he was, it must have been at a discreet distance because I could not detect him. In my heart, though, I believed he had remained where we’d left him; standing in the forest clearing, bleeding and bruised, his arms hanging limply by his sides, a look of dismay on his face as I climbed up behind Guy and rode off with him.

After riding a short distance, I was tempted to tell Guy that he would have to make it back to Nottingham alone and hope he didn’t faint from loss of blood and fall off the horse. I said nothing, however. I would have fretted about him, thinking that by my actions I might have condemned him to a night alone in the forest, injured and with the possibility that either Robin or the other outlaws would come across him and finish him off.

Guy reins the horse to a sudden stop and my face bashes into his back. My nostrils fill with the smell of blood, sweat and leather, nauseating me.

“What is it?” I ask. “Are you all right?”

“I am managing,” he says. “No thanks to your outlaw. You know that if you had not turned up when you did he would have killed me.”

“You do not know that.”

“You saw the look on his face.”

“He thinks you stabbed him. He thinks you tried to kill the king. Did you?”

“No. Hood is lying.”

A memory stirs; a time when Guy was absent from Nottingham for many weeks. Some said he had gone to London, on sheriff’s business, others said York. There were also rumours of him being unwell, as well as scurrilous talk about him having ‘caught something nasty’ from a tavern girl. I cared little at the time about the reason for his absence, particularly as it meant I was free of him constantly sniffing around me.

I wish I were not on a horse sitting behind him, staring into a tangled mass of dark hair interwoven with leaves, twigs and dirt, a reminder of his brawl with Robin. I wish I could see his eyes to know if he is lying.

He clicks the horse on, skirting around a fallen tree, the reason for our abrupt stop.

“There was a time when you were absent from Nottingham for many weeks,” I say. “Where were you?”

“I was in Locksley, in bed. I had contagion. Ask Pitts if you do not believe me. He came and tended to me and imposed a quarantine on the house until I was out of danger.”

“I will most certainly go and see Pitts. If he confirms your story then I need to tell Robin. Until then, you need to keep out of Robin’s way.”

“Don’t worry. I plan to.”

“There is another thing,” I say.

“What?” 

“Your tattoo. Robin said he cut the would-be assassin’s tattooed arm. Why would he make up such a thing?”

“I do not know. Most likely, he saw my tattoo and concocted the lie in an effort to convince you that I was in the king’s tent when he says I was. He is jealous that we are...friends. He would say anything to discredit me in your eyes.”

I turn my face to the side in an effort to avoid breathing in the stench leaking through Guy’s leathers as well as the smell of leather itself. I must say I am relieved when the castle comes into view.

“You will stay?” Guy asks as we clatter across the cobbled courtyard.

“No. I cannot. I must return to my father. He does not know that I went out riding and will be distraught if he finds me missing.”

“You did not tell him?” Guy asks.

“I do not tell him everything.”

“You don’t tell lots of people everything, do you?”

I do not like the dangerous turn this conversation is taking and hurriedly dismount.

“Gisborne!” the sheriff shouts, charging towards us. “Where have you been?”

“Getting stabbed by Hood.”

“What?”

Guy gingerly dismounts and turns to face the sheriff, waving the bloodied scarf at him.

“What happened?” the sheriff asks in a tone of voice that says as if he doesn’t know.

“I went to visit Marian. It appears Hood still desires her and when I was returning through the forest, he attacked me. Luckily, Marian chose to go riding and came upon us. She saved my life.”

Vaisey rolls his eyes. “Saved by a leper. Have you no shame, Gisborne?”

Guy grimaces and I do not think it is from the pain in his shoulder. The sheriff knows the story of Guy’s father as well as anybody in these parts. Of course, that’s exactly why he uses the term, reminding Guy of his disgraced father in an attempt to keep Guy in his place, to remind him how low he once was and how high the sheriff might raise him up as long as he continues to do his bidding.

Discomforted, Guy yells for a boy to take his horse and then turns back to me.

“It will soon be dark. You should not ride alone to Knighton at such a time.”

“I am not afraid of the dark. Can you request a horse for me, please?”

“Enough of the sweet-nothings,” the sheriff says. “And get inside, Gisborne. I don’t want you bleeding all over my nice clean courtyard.”

Guy scowls. When a boy comes to take his horse, he asks the lad to fetch me a fresh horse. “I will see Marian to the gate,” he tells Vaisey, in a rare show of defiance.

Before the sheriff demands otherwise, Guy takes my arm and leads me towards the castle gateway.

“Marian. I want to thank you for what you did today and also—”

“Anyone would have done the same,” I cut across him. I smile and wave at the boy leading a brown mare in our direction.

“Your horse, my lady.” The boy gives a small, self-conscious bow.

“Thank you,” I say, wishing I had a coin I could hand him.

“Well,” I say to Guy. “I shall wish you a goodnight and a speedy recovery.”

I swing into the saddle of the horse and am about to move off when Guy grabs hold of my leg through my skirts.

“Marian, I must tell you. No.” He shakes his head. “Please, get down.”

“I do not have time for more talk,” I say, jiggling my leg in an effort to dislodge his hand. “I will see you another day.”

“No. I need to tell you something and I cannot do so with you sitting up there. If you do not climb down, I will tell the sheriff that I believe you and Hood are in cahoots.”

“We are not!”

“Get down. Please,” he adds.

I huff in annoyance and dismount.

“Be quick,” I tell him. “I must go home.”

“It does not take long to say three words, Marian.”

“What three—”

“Shush,” he says, placing a finger to my lips. He leans towards me and whispers in my ear. “I love you.”

There they are; those three little words I’ve been waiting to hear for more than five years. Said by the wrong man.

 

 

_Him..._

 

“Well, Cupid,” Grandmaster booms at me. He unfurls his huge wings and flaps them at me as a way of reminding me that he is the boss and I’m just an underling. “Beginning to regret your little game now, are you?”

“You’ve been watching me?”

“For a while.”

“I was just having a bit of fun. No harm done.”

“No harm you say. Yet a man has been stabbed and another thinks his sweetheart disbelieves his every word, that she has deserted him for a black-hearted devil.”

I shrug. “It’ll all work out. Rule Three states that—”

“I know what Rule Three states!” Grandmaster snaps. “I wrote the damn rules.”

“Well then,” I say with another shrug. I glance around The Circle and smile nervously at my fellow spirits. None of them smiles back.

Grandmaster shakes his head, a sad expression on his face. “I do not like admitting failure, yet it seems I must do so in your case.”

“So,” I say, drawing out the word, wondering how I can make a quick getaway. “We’re done, then?”

“Far from it.”

A flash of light briefly blinds me. When I open my eyes, I am no longer inside The Circle. Grandmaster is holding one of my wings, so I cannot fly properly. Not that it matters. His wingspan is enough to keep both of us off the ground.

“What’s this?” I ask. “Where am I?”

“Do you not recognise it?” Grandmaster says.

I look down. Below us is Locksley Manor. A woman comes out of the house.

“That’s the girl,” I say. “Marian. She does not look well.”

“She has recently lost her baby, in childbirth.”

“Oh. Shame. Well, I’m sure she and Robin can—”

“Not Robin,” Grandmaster interrupts. “The dark one, the one called Gisborne. That is who she marries.”

“I don’t understand. Rule Three states that true love always wins.”

“It does indeed, Cupid. However, you broke the rules, remember?”

I frown. “But Rule Two says the path to true love never runs smoothly and if Rule Three states—”

“Enough with Rule Three! You went too far, Cupid. Yes, many couples suffer a few little bumps and bruises along the way, metaphorically speaking, but we’re only supposed to observe and if things get out of hand, step in and nudge them in the right direction, not send them so far off course that they never get on the path again. What were you doing in Heart and Mind School, Cupid? Dozing at the back?”

There is another flash of light. When I open my eyes this time, I find we are hovering above desert sands, not a tree or river in sight.  

“Do you know where you are now?” Grandmaster asks.

“Hell?” I venture.

“There is no such thing as...oh, never mind. No,” Grandmaster says, “you are not in Hell. This is the Holy Land. This is where Robin comes shortly after Marian announces her betrothal to Gisborne.”

“But why?”

“Because he lost her, that’s why. Human men, and women for that matter, often do senseless things when their hearts are broken.” Grandmaster points. “Can you see it?”

I squint and shield my eyes with my free wing. There, lost in the wide expanse of sand, is a grave marked by a simple wooden cross. A small plaque lies to the side of it. 

Grandmaster produces a spyglass from his person. He is full of surprises. I hold it to my eyes and, locating the plaque, I read.

_Here lies Robin of Locksley, Earl of Huntingdon_

_Son of Nottingham in the Country of England_

_Let his bravery never be forgotten_

_He died for King and Country_

Grandmaster grabs the spyglass and, with a whoosh, we are back in The Circle.

“Do you know what you were seeing, Cupid?”

“The future?”

“Precisely.”

“She marries Leather Pants and Hoody dies? How can this be? Rule—”

“Shut it!” Grandmaster barks. “Gisborne was the girl and the outlaw’s bump and bruise, as it were, but with your help she would have seen that he was not the one for her and thrown herself into her true love’s arms. However, the die was cast the moment you encouraged her to tell the outlaw that there was someone else.”

_One of my better lines._ Oops. I remember now.

“That, of course, led to the moment where the men fight, the outlaw being consumed with jealousy by then, which in turn led to the revelation about the dark one’s tattoo.”

“You should have told me about that,” I mutter.

Ignoring my mumbled complaint, Grandmaster continues. “Gisborne suggests to Marian that she speaks to the physician who treated him. Which she does. Pitts confirms Gisborne’s story and...well, you’ve seen the rest.”

“Why didn’t you stop me?” I ask.

“It was your Task. We must not interfere; it is our law. You know that. To be honest, we did not see how you could possibly fail this time around. The girl and the outlaw were destined, or so we believed, to be together.”

“I will go back and fix it.”

Grandmaster shakes his head. “You cannot undo what is already done.”

“But there must be a way?” I cry.

I cannot believe it is going to end like this, with the girl married to a cruel, weak-willed man and Hoody Two Shoes six feet under. I was just having some fun. I didn’t mean to destroy lives.

Everyone in The Circle, including Grandmaster, turns their back to me.  I must endure The Wait while they decide my fate.

I lower my head and fold my meagre wings around myself. Squeezing my eyes shut, I try to blot out the look of sadness on the girl’s face as she stepped out of the manor house and the simple wooden cross in the middle of the desert marking the outlaw’s grave.

 


	9. Part 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some people get what they want. Others don't.

_Her..._

“I love you.”

I do not return Guy’s words, instead mumbling about needing to hurry back to my father. Before he has a chance to say anything more, I swing up into the saddle of my borrowed horse and spur it through the castle gateway.

As I ride back to Knighton, my head is full of quandary and not only over Guy’s whispered words of love. Was he telling the truth about his contagion? Had Robin lied or, at least, been confused about who attacked both him and the king in the Holy Land? I truly don’t know.

Pitts. I will ask the physician. Pitts has treated my father in the past and seems like a man of honour. If he says that Guy was dangerously ill, confined to his bed for weeks on end, I will take this news to Robin and challenge the truth of his words.

As I ride, I keep a look out for my runaway horse, hoping that he might have made his way out of the forest and, by some miracle, followed the road to Knighton. Sadly, as I canter up to the house, I have to conclude that Beauty is lost, at least for the time being.

I am weary to the bone, which is unsurprising as it is fast approaching midnight. I pray that my father went to bed without checking on me.

After stabling my horse, I make my way to the house. It is in darkness. I find the front door latched, but I am not alarmed. My bedchamber shutters are open and it is not difficult for me to shinny up to the window using the house’s supporting timbers as handholds; Robin isn’t the only one who can break into a house by way of the upper floor.

I tiptoe past my father’s room, first putting my ear to the door to confirm that he is indeed in there and not out searching for me. Wheezy snores tell me that he is. I expel a thankful sigh of relief.

Once in my room, I am tempted to simply collapse on the bed and sleep. That is until I recall that I promised myself I would go out tonight as the Night Watchman. I shake my head at such foolishness. I can barely keep my eyes open let alone go riding through the night handing out food and medicine. I’m afraid the needy will have to go without for another day at least.

I have stripped down to my chemise and am eyeing my bed with longing, when someone taps on my door. If it is my father saying he cannot sleep and might I fetch him some warm milk or some ale, I will find it difficult not to scream. Another tap, tap - not on the door but at my window. A moment later, a thump. I pick up one of my boots to throw at whoever is stealing into my bedchamber. A heartbeat later, I put it down with a tired smile. It is Robin.

He tosses his bow onto the bed and unbuckles his sword belt, dropping it onto the floor with a clatter.

“Shush,” I say. “You will wake my father.”

The candles on my bedside table flicker madly as a gust of wind blows through the open shutters. Shivering, I wrap my arms around myself suddenly aware of my near naked state.

“You ought to wrap up,” Robin says with a wink. “You’ll catch your death dressing like that.”

“What are you doing here?” I hiss, unamused.

I turn my back on him and scoop up a coverlet from my bed to wrap around myself. Robin thoughtfully closes the shutters.

“Well?” I ask, turning to face him.

“I came to return something.”

“What?”

“Your horse. I found its reins snagged on a tree as I was making my way here.”

“Thank you. But there was no need to bring it here tonight. You must be exhausted.”

“Is that your way of saying you don’t want me here?”

He comes nearer and I can see more clearly his dirty, bleeding face. I tut.

“Let me tend to your cuts,” I say. “It won’t do your reputation any good if your peasants see that it is possible to hurt Robin Hood.”

“This is nothing,” he says, “compared to my other injuries.”

Without my prompting, he takes off his jerkin and lifts up his shirt. There, illuminated by the soft candlelight, is an ugly scar, ridged and puckered.

“What happened?” I ask, reaching out and touching the damaged skin with my fingertips.

Robin hisses, as though my touch hurts, but when I look up and meet his eyes I see that it is not my touch but the memory of how he gained such a disfigurement that is the reason for his reaction.

“You know what happened. I told you. This is where Guy stabbed me as I defended our king.”

“He said he wasn’t there, that you concocted a lie to discredit him in my eyes.”

“It’s not a lie. It’s the truth.”

Robin lets his shirt drop and turns away from me, breathing fast. I reach out and tentatively touch his back.

“I want to believe you, Robin, truly I do. But surely Guy would not go all the way to the Holy Land to—”

“Then believe me!” he says, whirling around and grabbing hold of my arms, causing the coverlet to drop to the floor.

“You are hurting me,” I say.

He lets go and staggers backwards.

“I’m sorry,” he says, scooping up his sword-belt.

I have no idea what he is apologising for: gripping my arms too tightly, for putting the needs of his men and his peasants before my needs, for leaving me while he chased his dreams of glory on the battlefield.

“Don’t go,” I say, remembering what Guy said about Pitts.

“What point is there in me staying if you don’t believe me?”

He finishes buckling his belt.  

“I don’t know what to believe. But there may be a way to prove your story.”

“How?”

“I queried why Guy was absent from Nottingham for many weeks. He told me that he had contagion, that Pitts the physician placed the manor house in quarantine, that he treated Guy.”

Robin wipes his eyes, bright with unshed tears. He steps away from the window. “Pitts will also lie. He’ll be in the sheriff’s pay, or Gisborne’s. Why else would Gisborne say such a thing when he knows it will be easy for us to query the physician?”

“Then we will have to make sure that Pitts tells the truth.”

Robin eyes widen in comprehension at my meaning. He smiles tremulously and I smile back. I feel as if I’ve suddenly awoken from a dream. How could I not believe Robin? He has never lied to me.

_There is someone else._ I don’t know why I said that. It was as though I was possessed. Now, suddenly, I feel lighter, freer. Guy is a cruel, spineless man who wants to steal Robin’s life. Well, he may have Robin’s house and lands, but he is never going to have me.

“Now,” I say. “Let me wash your face and tend to those cuts.”

“I’d be happier with a kiss,” Robin replies.

Remembering our interrupted moment in the armoury, I say, “Are you sure Much isn’t outside?”

Beauty whinnies.

“Not unless he’s turned into a horse,” Robin says, sliding his arms around my waist.

_Him..._

 

I could not leave it at that, despite Grandmaster telling me that it was impossible for me to undo my meddling. So, while my fellow spirits’ backs are turned, I take my chance and hurtle back to earth as fast as my inferior wings will take me.

The girl is not in her father’s house, nor is she out riding: Beauty (what a namby-pamby name for a stallion) is in his stall and alongside it another horse that I do not recognise. The outlaw, too, I am unable to find.

Perturbed, I speed towards Nottingham. Am I too late? Was I gone longer than it felt and Robin has already left for the Holy Land, having found out that Marian has sided with Guy and chosen him over the outlaw? Has Leather Pants already said _I do_ to the girl and she back to him? Is an arrow already winging its way towards the outlaw’s heart or a sword about to run him through?

Arrgh! I hate my life!

My guilty conscience eases, however, when I hear Hoody speaking to his men. It is clear they have broken into the castle, though for what purpose I don’t yet know. For a handful of wing beats, I imagine the girl locked up in a high tower, shackled to the wall, crying out for her hero to come rescue her. Furthermore, I see the outlaw coming upon Gisborne and saying ‘how about I go for the other shoulder this time, or maybe a little lower’.

My wild imaginings cease, however, when I hear Marian hissing at Robin and the gang to follow her. This sounds worth seeing. Sniffing, I pick up their human scent and soon find them skulking about near the dungeons.

What’s this I find? The girl and the outlaw are holding hands.

“Ha!” I say, glancing towards the heavens. “Can’t be undone my foot!”

Raised voices pique my interest. Leaving the outlaws for a moment, I flit down the corridor. Ah, ha! It’s the sheriff and Gisborne and it appears they are having words.

“For pity’s sake, Gisborne! Why didn’t you tell me about this tattoo?”

“I did not think it mattered.”

“Well it matters now, you fool!”

“No one knows about it except Hood. Marian did not believe his story and neither will anyone else.”

“And we are going to make sure that it stays that way.”

The sheriff strides over to the fireplace. He picks up an iron poker and shoves it into the heart of a roaring fire.

Gisborne pales as he realises what the sheriff is about to do. I don’t blame him. I’m feeling queasy just thinking about it.

“Please, my lord,” he begs. “There is no need for this.”

“Painting yourself like a girl,” the sheriff mutters, ignoring Gisborne’s pleas and grabbing the quivering man’s arm.

“Not so fast, my gold-toothed friend.”

I spin around. It’s the sandy-haired cutpurse, Allan. He has an arrow trained on the sheriff.

“Hood’s man,” the sheriff says full of disdain. He nods at a guard stationed at the back of the room

“Not man, men,” Robin says, as he and then the rest of the gang show themselves, weapons drawn.

“Well, well,” the sheriff says. “Come to join the brandishing party have we, Locksley.”

Without lowering his bow and arrow, Robin takes a step towards the sheriff.

“That’s far enough,” the sheriff says. “Come one step closer and Gisborne, or should I say a certain tattooed part of him, gets it.”

The sheriff waggles the red-hot poker over Gisborne’s exposed arm.

Robin grins and, for a moment, only I alone know why. Distracted by the outlaws, the sheriff did not see Marian slip into the room and work her way behind him.

“I would put that poker down if I were you,” Marian says, prodding the sheriff in the back with her dagger.

“Marian,” Gisborne bleats in relief.

The sheriff drops the poker onto the floor whereupon it sizzles on the damp stones underfoot.

“So, what now, Locksley?” he asks.

“Confession time,” Robin says. He nods at Much and the latter produces a parchment and quill from his satchel.

“Oh, come on,” the sheriff scoffs. “You don’t seriously expect Gisborne to...ouch!”

Yes! This is so much better than fisticuffs. I’m on the edge of my seat. Well, I would be if I had a seat. Only Grandmaster gets one of those, a great gilded thing covered in red velvet.

Marian taps the sheriff’s shoulder with her dagger and then jabs the tip into his neck.

“If he doesn’t,” Robin says. “Then I will kill you.”

The outlaw eases the grey and white goose feather-fletched arrow back to his ear, ready to loose.

“You won’t do it and you know it,” the sheriff says with a confidence it’s clear he doesn’t entirely feel. I can see his legs shaking beneath his black satin night robe.

“I might not,” Robin says. “But she will.”

He gives a slight nod and Marian responds in kind, a smile on her face.

The sheriff gasps. As he does so, Marian slaps a hand to his mouth. The sheriff splutters and gags. Marian mashes her hand to his open mouth while still jabbing her dagger in the sheriff’s back. Red of face, the sheriff tries to bite Marian’s hand. She whips it away and he stumbles forwards, regaining his balance by grabbing the back of a tall chair. Coughing and spluttering, he whirls around to confront her, but gets no further than saying, “Oh,” his eyes widening in both surprise and comprehension, before he crumples to the floor.

Well, lordy lord! She’s killed him. That girl has more spunk than the lot of them.

“Now, Gisborne,” Robin says, aiming his arrow at Leather Pants. “About that confession.”

Numbly, Gisborne accepts the quill and parchment and begins to write, confessing his part in the attempted assassination of Richard the Lionheart, while asserting that the sheriff was behind the whole thing and that he was only following orders.

Once written, Gisborne hands the confession to Much. Then he turns to Marian.

“Forgive me,” he says. “I was only doing what I...”

He trails off. Marian is not listening. Instead, she is embracing Robin, her one true love.

Gisborne sinks to his knees beside the dead sheriff, defeated.

Well, upon my word! What a day this has been. Grandmaster proved wrong; a forced confession; a dead sheriff. I’m beginning to think that this particular Task has its merits after all. Now, if only Robin and Marian will head back to a cosy manor house, Knighton or Locksley, I don’t care which, I will be happy. That forest is a draughty place, as well as bewildering; all those damn trees look the same to me.

As they run through the castle corridors, the outlaw grabs Marian’s hand. “Are you all right?” he asks.

“Yes,” she says.

“How long before Matilda’s drug wears off?”

“I’m not sure. I didn’t manage to get all of it in his mouth, so we may not have much time.”

“Then we should hurry,” Robin says.

“Where are we going?”

“To the forest, my love. It’ll be the safest place for you until we can get this confession to the king.”

They keep running, until the town walls are some way behind them and the forest visible in the distance. Only then does Robin slow, waving the gang ahead.

Oh, dear. I know what’s coming.

Too late! I see it. Hoody hugging the girl and kissing her on the lips. Oh, yuck, yuck, yuck! For all that I’m glad he didn’t die and she didn’t marry the dark one and lose her baby, I could do without the kissy stuff. I just can’t stand all that slobbering over one another. I really should have another job, polishing halos or something.

Unable to watch any more, I decide to check on Leather Pants. Who knows? Perhaps even now he is kicking the dead (or so he thinks) sheriff in glee before summoning a boy to saddle him a horse so he can take off after the outlaws and snatch back his signed confession.

No such luck. The wuss is lying on the floor groaning next to an equally groaning sheriff, both men realising that Robin Hood has tricked them.

 


	10. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Questions are asked and answered, and Cupid is given a new Task.

_Her and Him..._

 

As we charge towards the forest and safety, I glance at Robin, running beside me.

He nearly lost his life in the Holy Land and returned to England heartsick, his dreams of glory shattered by the realities of war, his hope of marrying me all but extinguished.

The joy on his face when I greeted him and he saw no ring on my finger should have filled me with similar joy, yet I was aloof, pointing an arrow at him and telling him to get lost. Admittedly, the sheriff had men watching my father’s house and we had to be careful, but I could have let him know with a wink and a nod that I was only play-acting, that my harsh words were nothing more than a sham. That’s not to say that I wasn’t still angry with him for leaving me all those years ago, for never writing, but I needn’t have added to his woes in such a cruel manner. Even my father said afterwards that Robin’s easy acceptance of my dismissal masked his true feelings and that he was as upset as any man could be returning home after five years away only to find his betrothed aiming an arrow at his heart.

Robin looks sidelong at me. “All right?” he asks, barely out of breath.

“I can run as long as you can,” I tell him, picking up speed as if to prove my point.

“Good,” he says, “because living with us you will find you have to do a lot of running.”

My good mood at escaping both the castle and Gisborne’s spell over me disappears. I had forgotten that I would not have Robin all to myself in the near future, that I would be living in close quarters with several other outlaws, including the ever-clingy Much.

However, right now, I have bigger concerns to fret about.

I know we have done the right thing. Guy’s confession (it didn’t take much for Pitts to cave in and tell us the truth about Guy’s so-called contagion) will help bring about the downfall of the sheriff, provided we can deliver it safely to the king, but our lives are now in greater danger because of it, including my father’s life.

Reaching the safety of the trees, we slow down.

“You know they’ll be after us more than ever now, don’t you,” Allan says, echoing my thoughts. “No way are the sheriff and Gisborne going to let that confession make its way to the Holy Land and into the king’s hands.”

“Don’t worry,” Robin says. “I have a plan.”

Much chews on his lower lip and gives Robin a wary look.

“A whole plan, not half?” Allan asks.

Robin nods. “You lot may have thought I spent the whole of last night canoodling with Marian which, I’ll admit, we did do quite a lot of, but—”

“Robin!” I admonish, my cheeks burning from more than our recent running.

“But,” Robin continues, “I also spent much of last night not only visiting Matilda for her handy knock-the-sheriff-out potion, but also one of the castle scribes, an old friend of mine.”

Much creases his brow in puzzlement.

“Matthew is going to make an exact copy of Gisborne’s confession,” Robin explains. “The real confession I am entrusting to someone who will take it to Richard. The forged confession I will accidentally on purpose let fall into the sheriff or Gisborne’s hands.”

“Nice one,” Allan says.

“You didn’t tell me about Matthew,” I say, annoyed that Robin has let me worry unnecessarily.

“That’s because you were asleep, my love. While we were with Matilda, you fell asleep and I could not bear to wake you, so I slipped away and returned later, as dawn broke.”

“Then you have not slept at all,” I point out.

“There’ll be time enough for sleep when we reach the camp. Speaking of which, we should get moving.”

Robin waves the gang on and when they are out of both eye and earshot turns to me.

“It will not be perfect,” he says, one hand on the small of my back, the other gently stroking my windblown hair. “The camp is cramped and we, that is, you and me, cannot expect to...to—”

“Canoodle,” I say with a smile. “Then I would suggest that we take advantage of our current circumstances.” I nod in the direction of the no longer visible gang.

_Oh, yuck, yuck, yuck! They are going to kiss and fondle one another again. I’m going to cover my eyes._

~

It’s the first time I’ve seen the new camp.

_That’s Marian thinking that, not me, Cupid. I’m the one in italics here, in case you hadn’t realised._

“Impressive,” I say, surveying Will Scarlet’s handiwork.

“We have proper beds, too,” Much says. “With soft blankets and...er...well, that is to say...” Flustered, he looks at his feet.

Allan laughs. Poor Much.

“You can sleep next to me,” Djaq says. “Away from the rest of these smelly men.”

“Oi,” Allan protests.

“Well, it’s true,” Djaq says. “You all smell, even Robin. I could put up with it because I have lived and worked on the battlefields in my homeland and became somewhat used to the stench of unwashed bodies, but now that Marian is in the camp I would suggest that you all take a bath more often.”

I notice John sniffing under his armpits and wrinkling his nose.

“We will all go to the river tomorrow,” Robin says. “But right now I need to get this confession to Matthew.”

“You’ll do no such thing,” I tell him. “You are dead on your feet despite running like a hare earlier. You need to sleep.”

“I’ll do it,” Much says, flicking a glance between Robin and me.

_Ah, so dimwit here isn’t quite such a dimwit. He’s seen the looks that have passed between his beloved master and Marian since they broke into the castle and he can guess that neither wants the other to put themselves in danger if they can help it._

Robin reaches inside his shirt and withdraws the precious document.

“I told Matthew to meet me at Dead Man’s Crossing. He promised that if we got it to him in good time he could produce a copy before sunrise. If all goes well, then by this time tomorrow it could be with a rider on its way to the coast and a boat sailing to the Holy Land.”

“Who’s going to take it to the king?” I ask.

Robin shakes his head. “I haven’t told the gang and I’m not telling you. I can’t risk it.”

I nod in understanding.

Much leaves, carrying the confession in one hand and a lump of dry bread in the other. Meanwhile, the others busy themselves with various tasks around the camp. I feel a bit like a fish out of water.

Robin, noticing my discomfort, comes to the rescue.

“Marian, I know you do not like embroidery and I’m guessing you don’t like sewing any better, but I ripped my shirt in the fight with Gisborne and I’d be very grateful if you could mend it for me.”

I go to protest but then bite my tongue. He is trying to make me feel useful, part of the gang.

“Of course,” I say, holding out my hand for the shirt.

“Er...first I need to give you something else.”

He hurries away before I have time to ask what he is talking about.

I wait, anxiously hopping from foot to foot. He is up to something. I can tell by the way that he scratched the top of his nose, something he does when he is nervous.

I look around to see what the rest of the gang are up to. Strangely, they have disappeared.

Robin returns looking even more uneasy than a moment ago, if that is possible.

“Marian?”

“Yes?”

“I...er...have something I want to ask you.”

“Yes?”

“Er...maybe later. We should probably sleep first. That is, I mean, I should sleep in my bed and you should—”

“Robin. You’re beginning to sound like Much. What is it you want to ask me?”

Robin takes a deep breath and then expels the air noisily.

_Oh, for God’s sake. Just say the words, you nincompoop!_

_I can see I’m going to have to intervene after all. The outlaw is hungry and exhausted; if he doesn’t say the words soon and continues to hyperventilate, he is going to pass out._

_I’ve no golden arrows left, so I hover as closely as I can to his right ear and whisper into it._

Robin fumbles inside his shirt and I wonder for a moment if he is about to extract a needle and thread.

It’s not a sewing kit. It’s a ring.

He goes down on one knee. “Marian, will you marry me?”

“Marry you?”

 “Yes. Marry me.”

_I think there’s something you’ve forgotten to say. I give Hoody a kick._

“I love you.”

_See, that wasn’t so hard, was it._

There they are; those three little words I’ve been waiting to hear for more than five years. This time said by the right man.

My knees are shaking. Tears of joy prick my eyes. “Yes,” I say. “Yes, I will marry you, Robin Hood.”

_Oh no! Here comes more of the kissy stuff. Time to leave._

_Him..._

 

It had been a warning. Grandmaster had shown me the future, but it was only a possible future, not one set in stone. He did it to teach me a lesson, to show me what my meddling with the course of true love might have done.

Rule Three: True love always wins.

Of course, you knew that. You believed in Rule Three, at least where Robin and Marian were concerned. Because you’ve believed in them all along, haven’t you?

Me, Grandmaster, The Circle – we’re not needed at all, not for Robin and Marian. After all, they have you lot. You knew they were destined to be together.

My head is bowed. I know Grandmaster is staring daggers at me. I wonder what punishment I am about to receive. Last time I messed up, it was a twelve-week refresher course at Heart and Mind School – I slept through most of the lectures and bunked off the rest, I recall.

Flap, flap. Grandmaster’s great wings blow rain-filled cloud into my face, stinging my cheeks. He’s dragging out his decision, letting me sweat (sweat! chance would be a fine thing!) I flap my own paltry wings, wishing I had a plush chair to sit on like Grandmaster. Even a simple pole to lean against would be nice.

Grandmaster clears his throat. I keep my head lowered, inwardly cringing.

“I understand you didn’t care too much about spending your time in a chilly forest, Cupid.”

I glance around even though it’s obvious he’s talking to me (everyone in The Circle is called Cupid apart from Grandmaster. I know, ridiculous, isn’t it?).

“It was a bit nippy,” I say.

I can guess what’s coming. He’s going to send me to Sherwood Forest again as punishment. I had a sneaky look into the future (courtesy of Grandmaster’s spyglass that is more than just a spyglass) shortly after checking up on Leather Pants and Sheriff Baldy who were bemoaning their lot, the former staring disconsolately at his tattooed arm, the latter weakly vomiting on the stone floor.

Before I was lassoed and dragged in front of Grandmaster, I caught a glimpse of that buffoon, Much, swishing about in a cloak, harping on about being called _My Lord Much_ and making puppy-dog eyes at some conniving girl called Eve. Heaven help me if I have to get involved with those two. I think I’d rather fly to that desert wasteland where I saw Robin’s would-be grave, cut off my wings and bury myself in the sand, headfirst.

I know for sure that Hoody and Marian don’t need me at all. In fact, I saw a brief snippet of their wedding day. It was after all the solemn church stuff. There was a feast, in Locksley, and Robin was giving a speech about his bride. He was comparing her to his bow. Seriously! I was surprised Marian didn’t grab the outlaw’s precious weapon and whack him round the head with it.

Talking about the future, I suppose you want me to tell you what happened to Gisborne’s confession, the real one, that is. Well, presently it’s lying on the seabed in a pulpy mess. The rider – a trusted friend of Robin’s – made it to the coast and boarded a boat bound for the Holy Land. Ten days into the journey, the boat encountered a violent storm and sank – all hands lost. So, that’s the end of that.

Anyway, back to the present and my current predicament.

“Prefer to be indoors, would you?” Grandmaster asks.

I give a vigorous nod. “Yes please.”

Grandmaster produces a parchment from under one of his wings. From the luminous gold writing, I can tell it’s a Task. He hands me the parchment and then lightly taps it with his wing tip. A picture emerges, gradually comes to life. There are a series of dark rooms with windows of iron bars. Moving around in one of those rooms is Leather Pants. His hair is long and unkempt, his chin unshaven.

“What is this?” I ask.

“It’s the castle dungeons.”

Grandmaster taps the parchment again and the picture widens. Next to Leather Pants’ prison cell is another, identical one. Behind the thick iron bars sits a young woman. She looks about as fed up as I feel.

“She’s called Meg,” Grandmaster says. “And she thinks Gisborne is an evil piece of horse dung. See what you can do with the two of them.”

There’s a steely glint in Grandmaster’s eye and my protest withers on my tongue. After my near cock-up with Robin and Marian, I know no amount of pleading will change Grandmaster’s mind on this one. I shiver. Not only is the Task an unenviable one, but also I’ll have gone from a chilly but fresh smelling forest (which wasn’t too bad now I come to think of it) to a dank, gloomy dungeon that smells like the back end of a cow just after it’s done its business.

“You’ll have your work cut out this time,” Grandmaster says not bothering to hide his delight at my unmistakeable misery.

My fellow spirits titter. Clearly, they know a few things about this particular Task that I don’t know.

I shove the parchment back into Grandmaster’s hands, grab my allowance of three golden arrows and dive and swoop through the dark clouds, inwardly cursing.

The boss thinks I don’t have a hope in hell. Well, I’ll show him. I’ll show the lot of them.

The girl, Meg, picks up a piece of stale bread. She sees maggots crawling on it and, with a squeal, drops it onto the floor. “I’m starving,” she says, viciously wiping her hands on her skirt.

I aim an arrow at Leather Pants and let it fly. Then I swoop down and whisper some encouraging words in his ear, just in case the arrow fails to work. 

Leather Pants slides a bare arm (ah ha! I see the famous tattoo was toasted after all) through the bars and picks up the mouldy bread. Calmly, he flicks off the creepy crawlies with his fingernail. Meg watches, curious and slightly amazed. Job done, he hands back the bread. She takes a tentative bite, glances up at Gisborne and gives him a bewildered smile.

I glance heavenwards and punch a fist into the air.

Yes! Gilded, velvet-covered couch, here I come!

**_The end_ **

****

 


End file.
